


Out of the Nightmare

by Jestana



Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jestana/pseuds/Jestana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Peter in the cabin at the end of the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Written over two years ago for a friend as a going-away present, I'm just now getting up the courage to post this. Rating for language and concepts. Beta by said friend.

**Out of the Nightmare**

"Tom, you're crushing me!"

In that moment, just as Peter began to find it difficult to breathe, Tom's weight slid from his back to the bed. Breathing deeply to fill his lungs, the musician rolled onto his side and stared as his friend curled into a ball, shaking. "I can't, I can't, I can't!"

"You can't what, Tom?" Peter asked, shifting to draw his lover into his arms, kissing the top of his blond head tenderly.

Surprisingly, Tom resisted, shaking his head. "No, I shouldn't. I don't deserve it."

"What are you talking about?" He refused to be pushed away, though, insisting on pulling the younger man to him. "Is something wrong?"

Abruptly, Tom pressed in close to Peter, clinging to him. As he tucked his head under the brunette's chin, the blond whispered, "Open up, step inside--but you'll hate me and I couldn't stand that. Dickie's rejection hurt, but yours would _kill_ me."

"I'm flattered I rank higher than Dickie in your opinion," Peter commented wryly, stroking Tom's back gently and soothingly. "I'm not going anywhere, though, so please tell me what's wrong."

They lay in silence for a long time, just breathing together. Just when Peter began to think Tom would never speak, the younger man did, his voice low, "Meredith thinks _I'm_ Dickie. We arrived in Italy at the same time and I wanted to know, just for a few minutes, what it'd be like to be somebody; to have someone hear my name and recognise it. So I told her I was Dickie."

"Is that all?" Peter was relieved. He thought Tom was going to tell him something much worse than that. "The solution is simple: I'll pretend you're Dickie whenever we run into her. The rest of the time, though you're still Tom, who is _not_ a nobody, by the way."

Tom gave a hollow laugh at that, muffled as it was by Peter's jumper. "No, that's not all of it. That's the _least_ of it."

"I doubt you can shock me," he commented lightly, though he was frowning worriedly now. The last time Tom had been like this had been the day he'd talked about shoving his past into a cellar and locking it up, never to look at it again.

After a few more minutes, Tom continued, speaking more to Peter's chest than Peter himself. "That was before I met Dickie and fell in lust with him, despite how much of a jerk he can be. He was lucky enough to have every advantage in life handed to him: money, good looks, talent, a beautiful girlfriend, and he didn't care. He was lazy, arrogant, self-centred, and treated people however he wished, not caring for their feelings. All he wanted to do was spend his father's money, sail, and fuck any girl that caught his eye."

"Tom!" Peter was shocked by his young lover's frankness. While he had to admit that every word was true, one still shouldn't speak ill of the dead.

The younger man shifted so he could meet Peter's eyes. His glasses were smudged and tear tracks stained his cheeks. "You _know_ it's true, Peter. I can see it in your eyes."

"Just because it's true doesn't give us the right to say it," Peter told him, gently removing Tom's glasses from his face.

"There are times when frankness is called for," Tom murmured, pressing close to Peter once more. "When I saw the way Dickie wasted all the advantages his birth had given him, it made me so angry, so furious. If _I_ had all of that, I would have cherished it, enjoyed it. I might not have gone back to America to build ships, but I certainly wouldn't have frittered my allowance away on nights of clubbing, days of sailing, and everything in between."

He finished cleaning Tom's glasses and set them on the bedside table, stroking his back once more. "Isn't that what everyone says? If we had the wealth and advantages of the rich, we'd be better people than the ones who _do_ have it?"

"I suppose." Tom shivered and Peter rubbed his back vigorously, fleetingly wishing they weren't lying _on_ the bedcovers, but _under_ them. "I knew Dickie was getting tired of me. The novelty of an old school friend he didn't remember meeting had worn off, I suppose." Another hollow laugh that sent chills down Peter's spine. "Like an idiot, I tried to hang on to Dickie's friendship. Without it, I would have nothing: just New York"

Something about the way Tom said those last two words gave Peter pause. There was so much loathing and spite in them. He had no idea anyone could hate a location that much. "Would returning to New York be so bad? There are many concert halls, theatres, and museums that you can visit."

"Not if you don't have money," Tom muttered, tightening his arms almost painfully around Peter. He stroked Tom's back soothingly and was gratified to feel him loosen his grip slightly. "When I told Dickie my idea to come back to Italy, he was disgusted. Said he was glad I was going back, that he was sick of me, that he hated me--" Tom's voice hitched. "I don't know what made me do it. I just wanted him to stop talking, stop complaining, like he always did when things weren't going _his_ way." The younger man pulled back enough to stare down at his hands. "I hit him with the oar to shut him up. His head-- I-- There was so much blood. He threw himself at me, trying to get the oar away from me. I fought back because I knew, if he got hold of it, he'd kill me." Peter watched silently, his heart pounding, as Tom wrapped his arms around himself and finished in a whisper. "Marge is right: I killed Dickie."

Silence descended in the little cabin as Peter digested what Tom had told him. He didn't _want_ to believe it, but so many of the details rang true to him. Peter had never had a reason to confront Dickie, but his temper was legendary. He certainly seemed capable of actually killing someone who'd provoked him. As for Tom, well, he was not sure. Before tonight, he'd have said that Tom couldn't possibly kill anyone, but he had to concede that stress could make anyone do things they wouldn't ordinarily. With all of these thoughts running through his mind, Peter looked at Tom. He was the very picture of misery: arms wound tight around himself as if it was the only way he could keep himself together, tears trickling down his cheeks despite how tightly he had them shut. Slowly, he reached out and rested his hand on Tom's shoulder. The blond flinched and opened his eyes, gazing at Peter through a film of tears. "You had no choice. Dickie would have killed _you_ otherwise."

"There's more," Tom whispered hoarsely, staring at Peter as if he was memorising every inch of his face. "Freddie started to put the pieces together. I _had_ to kill him. Everything would have been ruined if I hadn't." The words spilled out of Tom now, almost seeming to tumble over each other as he spoke. "I'd have killed Marge, too, if you hadn't come when you did--which I'm so grateful for, you have _no_ idea--and then, tonight, I almost killed _you_ because it's just us and Meredith is with a whole group of people and it'd have been more suspicious if she'd disappeared than if _you_ had, but I couldn't, just _couldn't_ \-- you're the only person I've met in the whole of Italy who seems to like me for _me_ , not because I'm pretending to be someone else."

Peter was more than a little shaken by the time the torrent stopped. He _had_ wondered if Tom had killed Freddie, too. It was logical, given that Freddie's death had been blamed on Dickie, who couldn't possibly have done it. He was rather grateful Tom had given him the key. Marge hadn't deserved to die and Tom certainly didn't need more deaths on his conscience, not when it was obvious that Dickie and Freddie's had been weighing on him and tormenting him. What shocked him most, though, was the fact that Tom _had_ tried to kill him; that it hadn't been his imagination after all. "Why kill anyone at all? As I said before, I can pretend you're Dickie whenever we're around Meredith."

"I don't know." Tom sounded absolutely miserable as Peter got up to put the score away. "It seemed like the best solution to the problem."

When he turned back to the bed, Tom had curled into as tight a ball as he could manage, visibly radiating pain and misery. He stood and gazed at the younger man, frowning. "A better solution than simply telling me everything? Which, for the record, you've just done."

"I never wanted to go back into my cellar." Tom rolled over to look at Peter, squinting a little without his glasses. "All the demons and ugliness-- It's not supposed to be shared."

Peter perched on the edge of the bed, remembering the conversation with Tom about locking away their past. "Except with someone special."

"Yes, someone special," Tom's voice was low as he began to shift around on the bed. "I never had anyone special until you."

He watched in amusement as the younger man hesitantly rested his head on Peter's thigh. He couldn't resist stroking Tom's blond hair. "And you just tried to kill me just a little while ago."

Tom flinched away from Peter, sitting up and leaning back against the bulkhead. "I'm sorry, but it was all I could think of at the time."

"I know." Strangely enough, Peter _did_ understand. Seeing how utterly miserable his lover was over the whole situation and how much the previous murders preyed on Tom's mind did much to soothe his anger that he'd nearly been murdered as well. He reached out to tenderly remove Tom's shoes and socks, not quite looking at him as he added a thought. "I suppose, it starts to become a habit once you start."

Tom pulled his feet away from Peter, pushing them under the covers. "I wish I'd never started."

Peter finished turning down the covers and began to change into his pyjamas. "Well, you can keep your past locked up in the cellar if you like, Tom. I won't tell anyone."

"You won't?" Tom stared as Peter finished buttoning his pyjama shirt. "Why? I've just told you the truth about what happened with Dickie and Freddie. You could--"

He tossed another set of pyjamas at Tom, aiming so they hit him in the face. "I could turn you in and see you punished." He perched on the edge of the bed once more, waiting as Tom slowly pulled the pyjamas away from his face. "No, I won't do that. I can see that you're punishing yourself enough over Dickie and Freddie's deaths. I'm not going to add to that at all."

"Peter." Tom stared at him, blue eyes shining with emotion. He grabbed the older man and dragged him into a tight hug, burying his face in Peter's neck.

He returned the embrace gladly, rubbing Tom's back soothingly. "If you're waiting for me to reject you, you'll be waiting for a long time. Get changed. You need sleep more than anything else right now. We'll talk more in the morning."

Not surprisingly, Tom didn't react immediately, but Peter hadn't expected him to. He just held Tom and hummed to him. Gradually, the younger man pulled away and stood up to change into the pyjamas Peter had tossed at him. He smiled and made himself comfortable under the covers. When Tom finished changing, he didn't hesitate to slip under them with Peter. The younger man nestled close to the older man, burying his face in Peter's neck once more. He kissed Tom's forehead and closed his eyes, resting his cheek against Tom's hair. Just before sleep claimed him, Peter heard Tom whisper, "Thank you."

_Tom has secrets he shared with me. Tom has nightmares, but he also has someone who will soothe him when he wakes from them._

_Tom has someone who loves him._

  
**End**   



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